BookNext.Diaries

Some friendships don’t begin with words — they begin with moments. A shared silence. A look exchanged between periods. A sketchbook left slightly open. That week, Meher and Aarav barely spoke in class. But something had settled between them — a quiet understanding that didn’t need to be named. The last bench was no longer just his corner of peace; it had become a small world the two of them quietly inhabited. On Wednesday, it rained. Not the kind of heavy storm that shuts everything down — but a slow, steady drizzle that misted the windows and made the pine trees sway like they were humming a tune only the mountains could hear. The school felt softer that day. Quieter. More magical. During the last period, while the teacher spoke about historical revolutions, Meher leaned over and whispered, “Have you seen the old library window?” Aarav shook his head. She smiled, eyes twinkling like she was about to tell a secret. “Come after school. I’ll show you something.” After the Bell The bell r...

Part 1: The Day Everything Changed The wind had a strange softness that morning — the kind that feels like a quiet secret brushing against your skin. In the small hill town of Dharwada, where clouds lazily drift between pine trees and the school bell echoes across valleys, it was just another weekday. Or so it seemed. Aarav was always early. Not because he was studious — but because he liked walking alone. From his house near the old post office, he would take the narrow forest trail to St. Mary's Hill School, tucked on a slope above the market. The trail smelled of pine bark, damp earth, and a hint of distant bonfire smoke. He liked that. It was the only part of the day that felt untouched, unbothered. As he reached the school gate, the bell hadn’t rung yet. The sky was wrapped in morning mist, and only a few students were around. His shoes, a little dusty from the trail, tapped softly on the stone-paved corridor. Then it happened. She arrived. Not with a storm. Not with the sound...

 🕯️ The Rainfall Room – The rain was still tapping on the window, a soft ticking like a clock counting down to something unknown. Room Eleven had fallen into a strange silence, and Arav could feel the weight of that quiet pressing against his chest. He had tried to sleep after the voice faded below the floorboards, but the whisper still lingered in his mind:"Arav... you remember, don't you?" No. He didn’t. But now, he wanted to. The hallway outside was dim. The single lightbulb flickered with a life of its own, swinging slightly as if moved by a breathless presence. Arav stepped out of his room. Behind him, the door to Room Eleven closed without a sound. He didn’t look back. The hallway stretched on, longer than he remembered. At the far end, a tall mirror leaned against the wall—framed in dark wood, old enough to have seen more than just reflections. Dust covered it like a shroud. Arav had passed it the first day, barely noticing it. But now, the mirror was glowing fain...

The rain had not stopped since Arav arrived.It pounded like war drums on the roof of the old lodge, soaking the world in a timeless rhythm that blurred day and night. Room Eleven had become more than a room. It had become a pulse in his mind, and every shadow in it breathed. After the mirror shattered, something changed. The silence wasn't empty anymore. It had texture. It had direction. The kind of silence that carried whispers—so faint, they could be mistaken for wind—but they weren’t. They were names. Whispers of names Arav had never heard before. Yet they scratched at his bones like he was supposed to remember them. That night, the electricity flickered again, but never fully went out. It preferred to die slowly, as if teasing him. The lightbulb blinked in rapid spasms, throwing slices of shadow across the old wooden floor. That floor—he had started noticing it more. Its lines, its patterns, how they seemed to shift slightly each time he looked away. He dropped a coin accidenta...

 Rainfall Room – The rain hadn’t stopped. Not even for a second. It clawed at the windows of the lodge like restless fingers trying to get in. The lodge—silent, still, and yet breathing—watched Arav like a trapped memory refusing to stay buried. The journal he found in Room Eleven still lay open on the bed, soaked slightly from his wet fingertips. The words were half-faded, some crossed out, others rewritten over and over again: “He returns when it rains.” Arav stood now, staring at the large mirror above the old wooden dresser. It was cracked at one corner, and if one looked long enough, it seemed the cracks moved ever so slightly, like veins pulsing in living skin. He didn’t remember this mirror. Not from childhood. Not from any visit. But it remembered him. He leaned forward. The air changed. The room grew colder, not from the rain outside, but from something that had crept in. 1: The Mirror's Game His breath fogged the glass. In that thin mist, a second reflection appeared besi...

सुबह के 4 बजे थे। हर तरफ हल्की नीली रोशनी फैल रही थी। मैं ऋषिकेश में था, एक छोटे से धर्मशाला के कमरे में, जहाँ खिड़की से बहती गंगा की आवाज़ सीधा दिल को छू रही थी। बाहर कुछ भक्त सुबह की आरती के लिए गंगा किनारे जा रहे थे। एक साधु पास से निकले – गेरुए वस्त्र, हाथ में कमंडल, माथे पर चंदन और आँखों में स्थिर शांति। उनके पीछे कुछ युवक थे, जो नंगे पाँव चले जा रहे थे, “हर हर महादेव” की आवाज़ के साथ। "मैं भी उसी सफर पर था – Kedarnath Yatra." बस में बैठते हुए मुझे कुछ बुज़ुर्ग महिलाएं दिखीं, जो साथ बैठीं और कहने लगीं – “बेटा, ये मेरी चौथी यात्रा है, पर हर बार ऐसा लगता है जैसे पहली बार जा रही हूँ।” उनकी आँखों में उत्साह और चेहरे पर थकान भी थी – पर मन में भक्ति। गाड़ी चल पड़ी। ऋषिकेश से श्रीनगर, फिर गुप्तकाशी – रास्ते में ऊँचे पहाड़, गहरी घाटियाँ, देवदार के पेड़ और बीच-बीच में भागीरथी और अलकनंदा का संगम। कहीं कहीं छोटे मंदिर, और हर मोड़ पर एक तिब्बती बाबा की चाय की दुकान। चाय का स्वाद अलग ही होता है वहाँ – दूध कम, अदरक ज्यादा, और उसमें हवा की ठंडक घुली होती है। गुप्तकाशी में पहली रात रुका...

 The Rainfall Room  The storm outside hadn't stopped. The rain fell like it had something to say, pounding on the roof and windows, soaking the town in secrets. Inside the lodge, Arav stood frozen in front of the strange photograph that had slipped out from behind the cracked mirror. A photo of Room Eleven, lit by an eerie orange glow—yet the room, as far as anyone knew, had been locked for years. He stared at the number etched faintly behind the photo. It wasn’t ink—it looked scorched, like it had been burned into the paper: "I see you." Arav’s fingers trembled. The message felt personal. He knew he hadn’t slept much, but this wasn’t a dream. The air in Room 10 was heavy, like it was being pressed down by invisible hands. He could hear something breathing… not loudly, but slowly, almost in rhythm with his own heartbeat. He turned away from the photo and stared at the window—the one that had no view. Rain slammed against the glass from outside, but there was no landscape,...